As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(64)

“Oh, Whitby,” she whispered, “I love you.”

His face turned white. “You—you do?”

She gave a choking laugh. “As a dear friend.” She laid her hand against his cheek, then stifled another laugh as relief flooded through him and the ruddy hue returned to his face. “That you would offer marriage to help me means more to me than I can say. But I don’t think that’s the right solution.”

“Are you certain?” Even as he asked, she knew he was sending up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t change her mind.

“I can hold my own against Robert Carlisle,” she assured him.

The waltz ended. As Mariah stepped back and sank into a low curtsy to match Whitby’s overly enthusiastic bow, she glanced across the dance floor…and directly into Robert’s eyes as he took his partner’s hand to lead her off.

Despite her anger at him, attraction spiraled through her, only to turn to icy jealousy when he leaned down to whisper something into the woman’s ear that made her smile.

Hold her own? She bit her lip. If only she could convince herself of that as easily as Whitby.

*



Three dances later, Robert watched Mariah over the rim of his wineglass as he raised it to his lips. Tonight she looked like a goddess as she glided across the floor, one fully aware of the heated effect she had on every man in the room.

Except for him. He’d gained immunity to her charms the hard way.

She was the shining star of tonight’s ball, and everyone wanted to be at her side. A few lucky men had been favored enough to partner with her for a dance. Even now she stepped gracefully through a set with the Duke of Wembley. His Grace was twice her age, but she smiled at him as if he were a young buck, putting him into her thrall. The way she had every man she’d danced with tonight. Just as his mother had hoped. After all, the duchess had been very busy working to ensure that all of Mariah’s dances were taken by only the most eligible gentlemen.

And Whitby.

His eyes narrowed on the dandy as he stood beside Evelyn Winslow in the corner of the ballroom. Mariah had made a complete spectacle of herself with him, whirling around the room so recklessly in his arms, laughing easily and glowing with delight. He was certain everyone in the room had seen the way she’d flirted…every casual touch to Whitby’s shoulders as they’d crossed the floor, each laugh and smile she gave him, dancing so close that her skirt brushed his legs with every turn. And the way she’d touched his cheek, staring up at him as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—shameless.

So was the way that Whitby and the gentlemen threw their attentions on her. Even now half a dozen men were descending upon her to offer glasses of punch as soon as the dance ended and Wembley escorted her off. The clodpoles hadn’t even bothered to get to know her well enough to learn that she preferred champagne.

“Sheep,” he muttered as she turned heads when she glided past.

So far, though, he had to admit that Mariah’s plan for the season was working—the gentlemen who called on her at home had abandoned all thoughts of courting her the moment they discovered she provided no inroads to the Winslow fortune. But it wouldn’t always be that way. There must have been one or two men present tonight who cared nothing about money who were casting their attentions on her. One or two who would be bold enough to call on her. Most likely as soon as tomorrow. And then it would be only a few weeks until the first marriage offers were made.

Exactly what he’d hoped when Henry Winslow challenged him with this task—Mariah wedded, his partnership secured, and indisputable proof held in his hands that he was worthy of being Richard Carlisle’s son.

So why was he so damnably annoyed about it?

He watched Mariah as she made her way off the floor with Wembley, then moved away from the crowd to catch a moment’s solitude by the open French doors. She wasn’t beautiful—tonight she was simply incomparable. And that dress…God’s mercy that dress.

Elegantly cut from copper satin, the gown draped dramatically from its high waist to the tips of her slippers and shimmered like molten gold. Daringly sleeveless yet with a modest neckline that only hinted at her breasts beneath, the tantalizing contradiction of satin and bare flesh was arresting. But it was the utter lack of embellishment that captured his attention most. The simple beauty of it was breathtaking.

Damnation, she was breathtaking in it. And he longed to strip it off her. With his teeth.

But remembering how she’d so furiously poured water over his head for daring to kiss her breast, he feared he’d most likely die in an attempt to undress her.

He was sorely tempted to try anyway. Because even now he could taste the spicy-sweet flavor of her, that exotic mix of cinnamon and oranges that drove him mad. Because even now he craved to unleash that sharp wit of hers and engage in the kind of sparring that sent excitement pulsating through him.

She turned gracefully with a smile as the orchestra played a fanfare, and yearning twisted through him so intensely that it took his breath away.

Sweet Lucifer. Some victories were worth the sacrifice of a man’s life.

Tossing back the last of his wine, he placed his empty glass onto the tray of a passing footman, snatched up a flute of champagne, and headed directly toward her.

Her back was to him, her body turned toward the open French doors so that she could catch some of the cool air and seize a moment’s reprieve from the party. She didn’t see him approach.